The Watchers (42 page)

… dingding … dingding … dingding …

Katherine leaned against the timbers and watched till the bell slowed and quieted, till its voice faded away.

‘How beautiful. What’s this bell’s name?’

‘Mademoiselle Couvre-feu. She rings every night just after eight o’clock for five minutes. She tells the Lausannois to cover their fires for the night and go to sleep. And then she rings in the morning at seven o’clock and tells everyone to wake up and stoke the ashes to make their morning fires. That’s what she says because she doesn’t know about electric ovens and alarm clocks. She’s the oldest bell in the tower, older than the cathedral. She’s more than one thousand years old.’

‘And she’s so small, compared to Marie and Clémence.’

‘She’s only three hundred and sixty kilos.’

‘She’s so beautiful.’

‘And she has a story, but it’s a secret story. You have to promise not to tell.’

Katherine raised a finger to her heart and made a tiny cross.

‘Cross my heart.’

‘She’s the last silver bell in Europe.’

‘You mean pure silver?’

‘
Oui
.’

‘But she’s so dark.’

‘Because she’s very, very old. You can come close and see. Be very quiet and listen.’

Rochat reached up and held the clapper in the palm of his hand. He eased the clapper to the inside of the bell with the softest touch. A lovely delicate sound chimed through the tower, delicate as a sleeping baby’s breath.

Rochat whispered:

‘She makes a C letter.’

Katherine whispered too:

‘That’s the same sound as Clémence, isn’t it?’

‘
Oui
, but Couvre-feu lives higher in the tower, so her voice is higher. That’s what I imagined. Was I right?’

Katherine tried not to laugh.

‘Makes sense to me. But why is she the last silver bell, were there others?’

‘In all the cathedrals. But there was a great war in Europe and all the silver bells were melted into cannons to kill people.’

Couvre-feu’s soft voice faded under their whispers. Katherine reached for the bell and then held back.

‘Can I touch her, Marc?’

‘You can touch her.’

Katherine stood on her toes, took the iron clapper in her hands, tapped it softly to the side of the bell. The baby’s breath of a sound chimed and swirled through the tower once more.

‘Gosh, melted into killing things. What a terrible thing to happen to something so beautiful.’

Harper ducked out of the service door of the Hôtel de la Paix. The Swiss Guard cabbie waiting around the corner was busy with a newspaper. Harper headed for the steps across the road and down to the small triangle-shaped park. He tromped through a clutter of pine trees and snow and came out on Avenue du Théâtre. A trolley full of disapproving locals passed by. Their looks admonishing Harper that decent citizens of the Canton de Vaud do not creep through dimly lit parks at night.

He moved into the shadows and checked his watch, he’d give it five minutes to see if he’d been followed.

So far, things were going according to plan.

He’d spotted the park from his room and worked out the roads. Just needed a diversion. He ordered up supper and a bottle of vodka. The waitress with a gun delivered the meal and asked him how he was, Harper said he was bored. The waitress suggested the classic movie channel, the one she watched at home. Ten minutes after she left he turned on the telly as the opening titles came on the screen: Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn in
Lust for Life
. He cranked up the volume, thinking it just might buy some time to get out and do some checking. He punched the Do Not Disturb button on the telephone, grabbed his mackintosh and headed for the emergency stairwell.

Didn’t spot any CCTV cameras on the way down, not that it mattered. Harper couldn’t be sure letting him get away from the hotel wasn’t
their
plan. Get him primed, let him loose, see where he goes. Harper decided that didn’t matter either. Had to take the chance. Couldn’t sit in the room till the Inspector came calling with another batch of snuff pics.
Yes, Mr Harper, we seem to have located the body of one Katherine Taylor. Note the limbless torso …

Harper checked his watch again, five minutes had gone by. He moved on.

He walked quickly along the pavement, his mind continuing to replay Inspector Gobet. The Inspector knew Harper was lying through his teeth about not knowing the voice on Madame Badeaux’s answering machine. That was the moment, Harper remembered, staring into the Swiss copper’s eyes, that he got the unmistakable feeling everything about the cop in the cashmere coat was wrong.

‘How did your business card end up at a particularly gruesome crime scene, Mr Harper?’

‘No bloody idea.’

‘Did you know Madame Badeaux?’

‘You already asked me, Inspector, and the answer’s still no.’

‘Then perhaps through the woman on the answering machine, perhaps she was the very person who left that rather cryptic message for you at the IOC switchboard, regarding a lost cigarette case?’

‘Told you before, she’s got the wrong guy.’

‘Then you won’t mind giving me the woman’s name.’

‘Sure, soon as I remember it.’

‘You’ll understand my having difficulty believing you, Mr Harper.’

‘Actually, I don’t give a tinker’s damn what you believe.’

Inspector Gobet pushing for more, Harper telling him nothing.

‘You don’t have a choice about this, or anything else, Mr Harper. You must tell me who she is. You have no idea the seriousness of the matter.’

Enough was bloody enough, Harper thought.

Had to get out, try and find her.

Maybe she was still alive.

‘Go fuck yourself, Inspector.’

The Inspector stormed out, Harper paced the room.

Only thing he knew for sure was he’d been used as bait by holier-than-thou Swiss coppers, and now Miss Taylor was being used as bait by the killers. The two of them on the receiving end of a bad joke. Question is, who’s laughing hardest, killers or cops?

Harper kept hearing Katherine Taylor’s terrified voice on the answering machine.
Simone, thank God, Simone. He’s a freak! He’s a goddamn freak
! Kept seeing her face hammered to pulp, her body sawed into bits. Kept working the timeline: Blondie’s message on Simone Badeaux’s answering machine at three this morning. She leaves a message at the IOC switchboard at midday. Could you return my cigarette case? Harper checked his watch, nine thirty. Means nine hours ago, she was still alive. No return phone number means she’s hiding. Question again: where does a hooker hide from killers who walk through walls?

Harper snapped back to now.

He crossed over four lanes of traffic.

He cut down a small dimly lit lane, saw Gare Simplon at the bottom of the hill, heard steel wheels on steel rails. He ducked into another shadow, lit a fag, thought about chucking the whole idea. Woman was probably dead already. Maybe it was time to buy a ticket to ride, destination unknown. Then knowing there was no place to go.

Maybe the cop in the cashmere coat was right. Maybe he didn’t have a choice, about this or anything. Come to Lausanne, find out it’s a trap, wait your turn to be slaughtered.

Harper dropped his cigarette on the pavement, let it smoulder, felt new Latin words tumble through his brain and on to his lips. ‘“Tempus edax rerum.”’

He headed back up the lane, turned down Rue du Grand-Chêne, sticking to shadows as best he could till he reached the lit-up Lausanne Palace. The Prussian general of a doorman was just helping a guest inside the hotel. Harper moved casually past the portico, stopped at the windows of LP’s. Saw Stephan, the polite bartender, pouring flutes of champagne behind the bar. Rest of the place packed with happy-faced locals at their luxuriant trough. The champagne-swilling chanteuse and piano player doing a number about the old black magic casting its spell. All the time in the world, these people. No bloody idea that time is the devourer of all things.

Eleven bells sounded from the cathedral.

Harper refocused his eyes, saw his reflection in the glass as something dark rushed over his shoulders. He spun around. Nothing but the branches of the beat-up Christmas trees swaying in a cold rising wind. He looked up and saw shreds of dead black clouds ripping through the sky. Feeling in his guts the clouds were coming for him.

‘Crack your cheeks, motherfuckers.’

He pulled at the collar of his mackintosh and pushed through the bar-room door.

twenty-six

‘
Bonsoir
, Monsieur Harper, may I offer you something to drink?’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘
Pardonnez- moi
?’

‘Miss Taylor, have you seen her?’

‘I haven’t since she was here Tuesday evening.’

‘Have you spoken to her at all, got a text message, anything?’

‘No. Is something wrong, monsieur?’

‘She’s in a world of shite, Stephan. I have to find her. Does she have any friends in Lausanne, someone she can shack up with?’

‘Mademoiselle Taylor is a very private person, monsieur. My girlfriend Lili and I are her only friends in Lausanne.’

‘Could she be with your girlfriend?’

‘I don’t know. They were to meet at the Beau Rivage on Wednesday, but Mademoiselle Taylor didn’t arrive. Lili’s tried to call her many times without success.’

Harper tapped his fingers on the bar, remembering.

‘The night she was here, she was waiting for someone. You know who it was?’

‘I know she was to meet someone but I only saw her speaking with you.’

‘Me?’

‘When she meets a client in the bar, I keep an eye on her, for her protection.’

‘Fair enough, mate, but there was someone else.’

‘As I said, monsieur, I saw only you.’

‘No, can’t be. When I was talking to her a waiter brought a bottle of champagne to her table. Do you know who sent it?’

‘I assumed the bottle came from you.’

‘Me?’

‘After she left I needed to charge her account, I checked with the serving staff but no one recalled bringing a bottle to her table.’

‘Can’t be, the waiter said it’d been sent by the gent she was expecting.’

‘Do you see that waiter here now, monsieur? We could ask him.’

Harper looked around, saw men and women in serving uniforms, hustling drinks on trays.

‘Truth be told, I can’t remember, I was so blocked. But I did give her something, a maquette of the cathedral.’

‘Yes, I saw it, and that’s also why I thought you gave her the champagne, as a gift. I knew you and mademoiselle had met before, and you did tell me you were to have a date …’

Stephan didn’t finish the sentence.

‘What is it?’

‘Monsieur, I thought you might be mademoiselle’s client for the night. When I saw her leave alone, I thought the two of you had agreed to meet somewhere else, for discretion.’

‘You saw her leave?’

‘Yes, she walked through the corridor to the lobby, she was wearing her mink.’

‘Did she looked concerned, scared, nervous?’

‘No, she looked very happy. She looked at me and smiled and waved goodbye.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes, I’m positive of this.’

Harper rubbed the back of his neck.
What the bloody hell was going on?

‘Hang on, did she have the maquette with her?’

‘No, I saw it on the floor behind her chair after she’d left. I came back to collect it for safe keeping but the table was cleared and the maquette was gone. I checked with housekeeping, but they didn’t have it. The staff is very careful with items guests leave behind.’

‘How long between seeing the maquette and the bloody thing disappearing? Five minutes, ten minutes?’

‘Thirty seconds, monsieur, a minute at the most.’

‘So whoever took the maquette …’

Harper felt a chill crawl up his back. Christ. The killers were here that night, watching him talk to her, watching him give her the maquette. They could be here now, watching again.

‘Think back, Stephan. You remember anyone asking about her that night? Anyone noticing her?’

‘On any night it would be unusual if people didn’t notice her, and that night she looked very beautiful. Monsieur, it was very busy that evening but I’m positive she was alone after you left her.’

‘You have her mobile number, her home number?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ring her.’

‘I’m not allowed to make personal calls on duty, I’ll go to the storeroom.’

Stephan asked a waitress to come behind the bar, needed to check the champers stock, he said. Harper smoked a fag, waited. The chanteuse now singing about being bewitched, bothered and bewildered. No shit, Harper thought. From the corner of his eye he saw Lucy Clarke walking towards him. He turned away. Too late.

‘Hello, Jay.’

Bollocks
.

He looked down at the ashtray, mumbled under the music.

‘Grab a pack of matches from the bar and leave.’

‘What?’

‘Just fucking do it.’

‘I beg your
fucking
pardon?’

Harper grabbed a pack of matches from a tray himself, stuffed them in her kid-gloved hands, spoke so anyone listening could hear.

‘Sorry, madame, I didn’t realize I was blocking your way.’

‘Hey, calm down, Jay. What’s going on?’

Harper stared at her.

She read his eyes.
Not another fucking word
.

‘All right, Jay, I get it. And thanks for the piss-off.’

She left, walked to a table where a group of people waited for her. She tossed the matches on the table. Harper turned back to the bar, the polite bartender was back.

‘Mademoiselle’s cellphone is still off, monsieur, and she doesn’t answer her home number. Monsieur, what’s going on?’

‘Seems to be the question of the moment. If she contacts you, get her somewhere safe. I’ll be back in later to check.’

‘What will you do?’

‘For lack of a better idea I’m going to the front desk, see if anyone saw her with anyone.’

Harper shot a glance back to Lucy Clarke. She had that laughing-because-I’ve-just-been-humiliated look about her. He turned to Stephan.